A Stranger in Mayfair

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Lenox wavered. He didn’t want to miss his chance to speak with Schott, but he didn’t want to stand in a tight space with a man who had thirty knives nearby, and knew how to use them.

Impulsively he crossed the street and opened the door.

As soon as the smell hit him he knew it had been a mistake. From twenty feet he could admire a butcher’s shop, its sanitary white, its reddish pink slabs of beef cut so tidily. Close up, though, it nauseated him. If it was browned in a red wine sauce there was nothing he preferred to a steak, but seeing it before it had reached that stage was less pleasant.

The man in the green butcher’s apron had been in the back, but at the sound of the bell attached to the door he popped up to the front. To Lenox’s disappointment, it wasn’t the gentleman from the boxing club.

“Mr. Schott?” he said.

“Yes? What can I get you?” The butcher was a short, tough lump of a man, bald and round-headed, with a belt of fat and arms that looked powerful from the heavy work of lifting and chopping. He looked at Lenox without suspicion. The detective put his age at about forty.

“I was wondering why you’d been closed the past few days.”

“I suppose a man can keep his own hours in his own shop, can’t he?”

“Certainly, yes.”

“Will that be all?”

“In fact I was hoping to speak to your cousin.”

Schott looked aggrieved. “Why on earth would you wish to do that? If it’s a cut of lamb you want, I’ve sold a fair few more than he has-only four or five thousand, I admit, but experience must count for something, mustn’t it?”

Lenox almost laughed. “It’s a fair point. But it wasn’t a question of butchery that I hoped to discuss with him. It’s about Ludo Starling. Or Frederick Clarke, really.”

Even as he said the second name Lenox heard something ominous: a lock turning behind him. He whirled around and saw the man from the boxing club, a cleaver in his hand, a key going into his pocket.

He looked back to Schott, who had his arms crossed and a dead-eyed look on his face.

True, visceral terror gripped at Lenox’s heart. There was no way out if these men wished to harm him. How stupid not to have waited until someone could come with him. Or at least to have told someone where he was going!

“Hello,” he managed to say in what he hoped was a mild voice.

“Well?” said the man from the boxing club. “I’m the cousin. What do you wish to say?”

“May I hear your name, sir? Mine is Charles Lenox; I’m an amateur detective and a Member of Parliament.” There. Let them know that if they killed him they were killing someone of note, someone who would be avenged.

“A Member of Parliament?” said Schott.

“Yes, for Stirrington.”

“Where’s that?”

“Durham.”

“What are you doing in London, then?” asked Schott’s cousin. Lenox noticed that he was young, perhaps only twenty.

“Parliament is here, of course,” said Schott in an exasperated tone.

“Your name?” asked Lenox again.

“Mine? Runcible-William Runcible.”

“May I ask you why you ran out of the Kensington Boxing Club that way?”

Schott spoke up. “He was scared. He did something stupid, and he was scared of being found out. Now he has been, the fool.”

“What did you do?” asked Lenox.

Runcible seemed to grip his cleaver tighter. “I’m not going to jail,” he said.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened? Did you kill Freddie Clarke?”

To Lenox’s surprise, Runcible smiled at the suggestion. “Never. Of course not. Freddie was my mate. Came every Tuesday and Friday for the meat. It was him that told me about the boxing club.”

“You were friends there? I thought he associated with some pretty high gentlemen.”

Runcible frowned. “Well-not friends, leastways not there. He was taking their money, and they wouldn’t have bet him if they knew he was a servant, he always said. He invited me to watch, but we never talked while we was there.”

“How was he taking their money?”

“Betting, I suppose. I never asked.”

“If you didn’t kill him, why did you run out of the club?”

Schott spoke up. “Show him the paper. It ain’t worth the trouble-staying closed, losing business, worrying about the police.”

To Lenox’s enormous relief Runcible nodded, put down the cleaver, and started to root around in the pockets of his green apron with both hands. At last he withdrew a soiled piece of paper, folded many times over, and presented it triumphantly to Lenox. Better still, he didn’t pick up the cleaver again.

Lenox smoothed it out and read aloud. Based on the spelling, the penmanship, and the slightly incoherent grammar, Lenox decided that it had been written by Runcible himself. I, Loodovick Starling, confess I paid Wm. Runcible two pounds to stab him in the leg in Curzen Street Alley.

Ludo had scrawled a hasty signature at the bottom of the page.

Lenox read it to himself again, totally puzzled, and said, “What is this?”

“What does it look like?” Runcible asked indignantly.

To Lenox’s unhappy surprise he picked up the cleaver again.

“Is it real? You stabbed Ludo?”

“It was me.”

“The young idiot,” added Schott.

“He paid me!” said Runcible to his cousin, in a tone that suggested they had discussed the subject before.

“Wait-wait,” said Lenox. “Why did he ask you to do this?”

Runcible shrugged. “I don’t rightly know. He came to me after hours and said, ‘You, William Runcible, I need you to do me something. I’ll give you two pounds.’ ‘What is it?’ I said. ‘Stab me in the leg. Make it bloody but not too painful. And make sure the damn knife is clean!’ ‘Show me the two pounds,’ I says-”

Lenox interrupted to ask when Ludo had signed the paper.

“Just before I went over I got to thinking about my risk-my legal risk-so I made up this dockiment for Mr. Starling to sign. He was angry, but it was all arranged, like, and he wanted to go through with it.”

Lenox felt entirely befuddled. The signature looked real, and the story was-well, was it plausible?

More importantly, how stupid could Ludo Starling be? Of all the men in London willing to stab him for two pounds, why oh why choose his family butcher? He must have been desperate.

“Did he ask for anything else, besides you stabbing him?” asked Lenox.

Runcible frowned. “Like what?”

Schott, as if he had given up on his cousin, was starting to pulverize a piece of veal. Lenox saw this as welcome further proof that they didn’t intend to slaughter him.

“Anything.” He didn’t want to lead the young man on. “To give him something, to…”

“You mean the apron! He asked me for the apron, the mask, and the knife when it was done.”

That settled it. The boy was telling the truth. “It’s the stupidest thing I ever heard of anyone doing, Mr. Runcible,” said Lenox.

Suddenly he remembered that day. Lenox had come to visit Ludo, who had been extremely cordial but then disappeared for twenty minutes, rather mysteriously, before returning full of apologies. That must have been when he struck his deal with Runcible. How strange. It was one small puzzle solved, anyhow.

Runcible looked dangerous and hefted the cleaver in his hand.

“That’s what I told him,” muttered Schott and gave the veal an especially vicious pound.

“I fear I must tell the police.”

Both men looked up, and again Lenox felt real terror, his heart thrumming in his chest.

“The police? He wanted me to do it,” said Runcible, brow darkened ominously. “That can’t be a crime.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Lenox nervously.

“Don’t placate us.”

“Very well, then. I think it can be a crime, and it makes you a suspect in Clarke’s murder.”

“I didn’t do that,” said Runcible.

“It was Collingwood, wasn’t it?” asked Schott. He had stopped tenderizing the veal, and his arms were crossed.

“I don’t believe you did,” Lenox said to Runcible, a roundabout answer, “but why did you run out of the boxing club?”

“I panicked,” said Runcible. “I figgered Mr. Starling’s getting stabbed-paying me to do it-was connected. Now the question is who you think you’re going to tell.”

“Don’t do anything foolish, William.”

“Going to prison would be foolish.”

Suddenly there was a sharp rap at the window. Lenox, terrified, jumped at the noise.

“The door is locked!” called a woman’s voice. “Let me in!”

Runcible looked at his uncle and then, reluctantly, put down the cleaver and unlocked it. The detective’s body flooded with relief.

“How can I help you?” he said to the young woman. Lenox turned and saw she was with a man.

“You can’t! I want to see him!” She pointed to Lenox.

He looked again. “Clara?” he said with surprise. “Clara Woodward?”

The girl looked indelibly beautiful, rosy with happiness. “You dear man,” she said, “I’m going to give you a kiss on the cheek.”

Lenox stammered something as she made good on her word. “Thank you,” he managed to come up with at last, blushing, “but whatever for?”

The young man at her side, who looked equally happy, said, “They’re finally letting us get married, and it’s down to you and your wife, sir. Pardon my rudeness-I’m Harold Webb.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Webb.” They shook hands. “More pleased than you know.”

“Isn’t it the most wonderful thing?” said Clara. “I saw you through the window and had to tell you. The way you spoke to my aunt at our dinner in Paris-it brought her to my side of things, and after that it was simple to convince my parents. Harold proposed to me yesterday. You dear, dear man!” she said again and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him again on the cheek.

In another mood Lenox might have found this comical, but only now was his heart slowing down. “I’m delighted for you,” he said.

“In eight months’ time,” said Harold, who was a tall, well-built lad, with friendly eyes. “Clara has said more than once that she hopes you’ll come.”

“It was the best luck running into you,” said Clara, her eyes sparkling.

“Indeed,” he murmured. “It would be my pleasure to come to your wedding,” he added and bowed slightly, smiling, “and Jane will be so pleased.”

“Excellent. Now let’s leave him to his shopping, Harold. Good-bye! We’ll send you your invitation soon!”

The three men were left alone again, too quickly for Lenox to say he would leave with the young couple. There was a crucial difference, however, which was that Lenox was closest to the-now unlocked-door. More importantly, perhaps, the mood of anger and tension had deflated.

“Listen, Runcible,” he said. “Starling shouldn’t have gotten you into this mess. I’ll not tell the police if I think I can avoid it.”

The young butcher looked at him suspiciously. “Oh? How do I know?”

“You have my word.”

Now Runcible sighed. “All right. Thank you, Mr. Lenox.” It was strange to see him almost deferential, gentle, after his earlier anger. He would be a dangerous boxer, in the right mood. “Can I have my dockiment back, though?”

Lenox looked down and saw that he was still holding the piece of paper. “Here it is,” he said, handing it over, “and please, be smarter in the future.”

“Stupidest thing I ever heard of,” repeated Schott and went back to his veal as Lenox left the shop.